


Revolution Unfolding

by EnchanteRhea



Category: Loveless
Genre: Gen, M/M, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnchanteRhea/pseuds/EnchanteRhea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wall can be as good a canvas as any. (Written to fulfill the request for happy Soubi/Kio)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revolution Unfolding

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Amber, who wanted happy Kio/Soubi and provided prompt-words: orange, books, intentions. This fic has very vague and mostly unimportant references to a 'verse I wrote way back when, of which the only element that might jump out at you are cigarettes in Kio's pocket.

**Revolution Unfolding**  
by Rhea  
  


> So don't turn away now  
>  I am turning in revolution  
>  These are the scars that silence carved  
>  on me
> 
> Vienna Teng – _Gravity_

  
  
  
Kio panted a little as he climbed the stairs, a voiceless complaint tickling the tip of his tongue. The armful of boxes he carried obstructed a view he would much rather set his eyes on; Soubi climbed before him – with ease Kio begrudgingly acknowledged as pretty damn amazing – his slender form not quite swaying as his feet took him upstairs far quicker than Kio thought possible, considering the weight in his arms.  
  
He peeked from behind the topmost box, catching a glimpse of the early afternoon sun dancing in Soubi's long hair. Pretty, he thought. Pretty enough to forgive him anything.  
  
"I always knew there would be some sort of benefit from climbing all the way up to _your_ apartment all those years," he said, huffing a little as he left another couple of steps behind. "Practice makes perfect."  
  
Soubi climbed the last steps two at a time. "You're still awfully out of shape," he tossed over his shoulder, not quite turning. "You should work on that."  
  
Kio grinned at the abundance of ideas his mind had chosen to conjure up just _now_. "Well," he raised his voice as Soubi slipped around the doorframe and disappeared inside. "This is a good start. I didn't think I owned so much."  
  
"It's the last batch." Soubi's voice echoed from somewhere beyond the door. "I think."  
  
Kio's muscles vetoed the strain with a distinct burning by the time he reached the top of the stairs. "Yep. Good thing we took care of the food before we started this." He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. "I'm totally not up to going up and down again."  
  
"You mean," Soubi said, dusting off his hands, "it's a good thing you insisted on taking care of the _beer_ before we started moving your things."  
  
Kio pretended he had not heard the note of mockery in Soubi's otherwise neutral voice. "One way or another—"  
  
"Watch out for the—"  
  
He didn't hear the rest – Soubi's words disappeared in the tumbling noise of boxes falling onto the floor. He stubbed his toes, losing balance with the sudden shift of weight, and all but ran into Soubi who reached just in time to catch his elbow before he fell.  
  
"…threshold."  
  
Kio winced, as much at the sudden pain surging through his foot, as he did at the sight of the mess he had just made. "You could have said that three seconds earlier," he grumbled, giving in to the sudden urge to _glare_ at the amused look on Soubi's face.  
  
"It's your apartment," Soubi gave his shoulders a light shrug, entirely unconcerned. "You'll get used to it."  
  
Kio's brow threatened to stay in a state of a perpetual frown. Only, he mused, not. "I don't even _live_ here yet. Well, not technically." Dead-set on winning at least this particular not-quite-argument, he crossed his arms and armed himself in what – he hoped – was his most convincing scowl. "Sou-chan, were you born this mean? It seems to be getting worse. You know," he teased, "with age."  
  
Something light sparkled in Soubi's blue eyes, an instant before he bent to lift one of the boxes Kio had dropped from its somewhat inconvenient – in Kio's way – spot on the floor. "You would know," he said, glancing up with an almost-sweet smile.  
  
 _Yes_ , Kio thought to himself, the lines of his face softening at once. _Indeed_. He watched Soubi for a while, curious eyes following the smooth grace of his step. "Anyway," he swallowed down the urge to continue bickering, "you'd better not have any plans for today that involve leaving this place."  
  
Soubi turned, blowing at a stray strand of straw-colored hair away from his face. "Why?" he asked.  
  
"Because," Kio grinned. He reached out his hand, pointing towards the far corner of the room, "you're going to help me paint."  
  
Soubi raised his eyebrows, briefly taking in the still mostly unfurnished place. "Paint? And white is bad since when?"  
  
Kio crossed the room and dropped to the floor beside a set of paint buckets he had bought and hauled in himself the day before. "It's not conducive of a true artistic atmosphere."  
  
Soubi chuckled, halfheartedly catching the sound behind his hand. "By this," he said, his tone careful, somewhat matter-of-fact, "you mean it's not the latest thing?"  
  
 _In fact_ , Kio thought, pursing his lips to feign annoyance, _I'm kind of sick of white in general._ "Well," he quirked an eyebrow. " _You_ would know, right?"  
  
Soubi treated him to a long stare, the corners of his lips turning ever upwards until he sat on the floor and let out a quiet laugh. "All right, all right," he said, turning up a pair of placating hands. "It's your house. What do you want to paint it, if not white?"  
  
"Now we're talking." Kio picked himself up from the floor, lifted one bucket and weighed it in his hand. "I'm going with the idea that artists are entitled to extravagance," he said, smirking a little. He stood by Soubi's side, taking a moment to enjoy the fact that Soubi's eyes grew just a little wider at the sight.  
  
"Orange?"  
  
"What?" he asked, feigning innocence and, he suspected, failing miserably. "Oh, Sou-chan." He shook his head. "I'm so sorry if you don't like it," he said, careful to keep at least his voice in check. He offered the brightest smile he could spare as he set the bucket down near Soubi's left foot, and rested one hand on Soubi's shoulder. "You'll get used to it."  
  
Soubi sighed. "Kio, you stretch the definition of incorrigibility like no one else."  
  
Kio glanced down at him; Soubi tried for a reprimanding tone, but his eyes were soft, the lines of his face gentle and smooth. "You like it," he said with a small chuckle. "Admit it."  
  


:::

  
  
Kio had been holding his breath a little more frequently from the moment Soubi had rolled up his sleeves and dipped his brush in the paint bucket for the first time. Light orange – _peach, really_ – stains on Kio's shirt spoke volumes of his attempts at focusing on laying down the first layer of paint on the wall to Soubi's left. He would like the warmth of this; late summer afternoon sun filtered through the brand new curtains behind him, drying hues swallowing their shadows dancing across the walls.  
  
Soubi painted like he did on canvas – methodically, straight shoulders taut, paintbrush in a firm grasp and a flexible, loose wrist. Kio watched him puff a cloud of cigarette smoke from the corner of his lips, watched the tiny crease of his brow, and splashed, by accident, another few drops of fresh paint – this time, on his jeans.  
  
"Really, Kio," Soubi spoke around the filter, his eyes following a new stripe of color, "you could have bought painting rolls. We'd be done much faster than this."  
  
Kio smeared a generous amount of paint between his fingers, mentally writing off his clothes as beyond washing, and glanced at Soubi out of the corner of his eye. "Why, sure," he nodded. "Only this is more fun, and you wouldn't be so far behind if you picked a bigger brush."  
  
Soubi reloaded his tool, stubbing out the cigarette with his other hand. "I probably would have, but you're hogging it."  
  
Kio's own brush landed with a soft clatter at the bottom of the almost empty bucket. He rolled back his shoulders, hands resting on his hips. "You just won't admit you're doing it wrong," he said, a clear-cut challenge behind his voice.  
  
Unruffled, Soubi lowered himself onto one knee, pushing a full ashtray aside so that neither of them would walk into it. "I believe I've done a fair share of painting more sophisticated than this," he said evenly.  
  
Kio shook his head. Of course Soubi would say that; of all people, he was the last one to admit defeat, even in something as trivial as this. "And that's _exactly_ my point," he said and walked briskly to Soubi's part of the wall. He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes behind thin glasses. "If I left you alone, you'd paint butterflies all over my walls."  
  
The air around them gained density for a while, for as long as Kio resisted the urge to flinch under the silent admonition of Soubi's unwavering eyes. A brief idea of apology flickered at the back of his mind; then Soubi's gaze softened and Kio averted his eyes, tossing a critical look at the half-painted wall.  
  
"Wait wait wait," he murmured, half to himself. He tapped one finger on his lower lip, shivering with rising thrill as he conjured up a quick, sketchy image in his mind's eye. "You know what? That's actually a pretty good idea."  
  
Soubi cleared his throat and shrugged. Paint dripped from his brush onto the paper covering the floor. "I don't think so."  
  
"Why not?" Kio refused to think of this as an inappropriate question, all things considered or not. "I do think we've been running away from things long enough."  
  
Soubi's eyebrows climbed into his hairline; he looked at Kio over the rim of his glasses, but Kio could not help but notice his fists clenching at his sides. "I am," Soubi said slowly, "definitely not running away from anything."  
  
Kio summoned a smile, twirling a strand of flyaway hair around his index finger. Moot point. He would solve nothing by way of argument. He glanced around, chewing on his lip as he ran a quick mental inventory of the contents of the boxes they had brought. He ignored Soubi's questioning glare as he dropped to the floor and rummaged through a large pack labeled 'art supplies'.  
  
He made a small, satisfied noise. "Prove it," he said, tossing a box of watercolors into Soubi's hands.  
  
Soubi took a half-step back as he caught it, then threw it back in the same instant as if it burned. "You can paint just as well," he said. He smiled just so, making Kio wince inwardly at his obvious pose. "I'll cook something for dinner."  
  
Kio's hands dropped to his sides, fingers curling around the edge of the box. "Fine, be your stubborn self." He sighed as he turned around. "Food sounds okay," he said.  
  
Soubi's footsteps clicked out a measured rhythm, soon followed by the whisper of plastic bags he picked off the floor on his way out of the room.  
  


:::

  
  
Kio rinsed his brush in a glass of water, watched paint swirl in random, lazy designs as it dissolved. He listened to the sounds of Soubi walking back and forth between the boxes – left on the living room floor – and the kitchen, retrieving yet-unpacked utensils. It felt good to sense someone's presence around him; the space suddenly seemed smaller in that comfortable way.  
  
He touched the brush to the wall, tracing an outline of a large butterfly wing, and smiled to his thoughts. He would like those there, even if he painted them himself. Practice, in fact, had made… better.  
  
"One thing I don't understand," Soubi spoke behind him, pulling Kio out of his reverie, "is why you packed _books_ in the box with kitchen appliances."  
  
Kio chuckled. "When you think about it, cookbooks sort of fall into that category." He turned his head, suppressing a giggle at the puzzled expression written in Soubi's face.  
  
"That's…" Soubi hesitated – a rare occurrence, Kio mused, satisfied – and turned one thick volume in his hands. "Quite a stretch."  
  
"Oh, no. That's what you think." Kio turned to the wall, released a long breath. Heat rushed inside him as Soubi crossed the distance between them and stood behind him, a step away.  
  
"Not bad," Soubi said.  
  
Kio's eyes slid shut as Soubi leaned slightly against him, one hand reaching. He swallowed thickly before he managed a somewhat strangled, "Thanks."  
  
"But the pattern is more random than not."  
  
Kio tightened his grip on the brush, pushing past the distraction Soubi's body heat served him as he bent to dip the tip in white paint. "You didn't want to do it," he said, cringing a little at how ragged his voice sounded in his ears. "Now you'll have to live with the most messed up butterflies on earth."  
  
"I guess," Soubi shifted his weight, one hand resting on Kio's, "it's good that I don’t live here, then."  
  
Kio's eyes snapped wide open, every tiniest movement of their joined hands compelling him to follow their path in the air. He gave up control, letting Soubi lead him as he dragged the brush in a gentle curve across the emerging shape.  
  
"Good point," he murmured under his breath. Soubi's palm felt warm on the back of his hand, guiding him as if to a tune only he could hear, and Kio found that he could not look away if his life depended on it.  
  
"Or you could…" Up and down, bit by bit, new lines danced on the surface and Kio watched, enthralled. "…fix it."  
  
Soubi leaned in, soft hair brushing against Kio's cheek. "I am."  
  
Kio ran the tip of his tongue across his suddenly dry lips, very much aware of the sound of his heartbeat rising above their breathing, above the distant noise of the street. He willed himself to relax into Soubi's rhythm, to grasp every minute trembling of muscle, to catch the flow of Soubi's style he had seen unfold countless times before – to find himself, his place and balance in this. Soubi's breath tickled his ear, ruffled the wild hair curling around his temple, and Kio bit his tongue to keep himself from somehow destroying this strange spell Soubi had cast on both of them.  
  
Heat settled in his cheeks; sweat broke on his skin as Soubi hooked his little finger around Kio's palm. He watched the butterfly unfurl wide, unmarred wings, stretching to completion and, for all he cared, time could have stopped and Kio would believe he had never held any regrets.  
  
He shivered at Soubi's touch, recoiling ever so slightly at the brush of fingers curling, carding through his hair. Feather-light fingertips whispered on his skin, tracing a small, pale scar on the side of his neck.  
  
"You never run away," Soubi said, his voice a gentle wave soothing Kio's mind.  
  
His vision blurred; Kio blinked, squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm stubborn too, I guess."  
  
"I like that."  
  
Kio surrendered to the rage of shivers that surged up his spine, to the goosebumps slithering across his arms. Half-turning, he sniffed and forced his lips into a tiny smile. "Sure you do. Who wouldn't? Now go, before you burn the food."  
  


:::

  
  
Cutlery clinked somewhere behind him, the rush of water a familiar, strangely soothing noise. This, Kio mused, could be home.  
  
The world used to wear a different mask on the back of his closed eyelids, reflecting torn edges of bittersweet dreams, of something incomplete. This, he knew without thinking, felt right, and he smiled to an image of Soubi battling dishes with his sleeves rolled up. He could get used to this. He _had_ got used to this, a long time ago; now, the image had gained the third dimension it had lacked before.  
  
He turned a pack of cigarettes idly between his fingers, blowing a thin cloud of smoke into the cool evening air. The city stretched far ahead, lights flickering against descending twilight, glowing signs of life below replaced the slowly hushing voice of the day. Relaxed, Kio stretched his arms above his head, biting back a yawn, and tossed a lazy glance over his shoulder.  
  
Inside, Soubi stood in front of the wall where they had painted a few hours ago, wiping his hands with a cloth. Kio laughed to himself, watching him tug at the apron they had finally found – after much confusion and largely beer-induced amusement – in a box with towels and bed sheets. Soubi had sworn he would never let Kio sort or pack _his_ things, so long as he had a pair of hands functional enough to do it himself.  
  
Kio had pointed out that he had, in fact, sorted out more than just that in Soubi's life – or at least he had tried. He had promised himself not to look too far behind Soubi's wistful smile.  
  
Glass door slid open with a muffled sound. Kio leaned back against the railing, waggling his eyebrows at the sight of Soubi letting his hair loose from the trap of a ponytail. He did not protest when Soubi tossed him a rather unconvincing glare as he extracted the small, still half-full pack from his hand and gave it a light shake.  
  
"The number goes right up with the intensity of the thinking process," Kio explained, trying for a serious tone, amused at having failed all the way. "You would know."  
  
Soubi moved to rest beside him, treating Kio to a sidelong glance on his way there. "You should quit it," he said. "It doesn't suit you."  
  
Kio laughed. "Smoking? Or thinking?"  
  
Soubi gave a perfect impression of being somewhat disturbed. "Smoking," he said, collecting the rest of Kio's cigarette to drag on it himself.  
  
"Well, look who's talking," Kio grumbled, but he grinned and Soubi shook his head.  
  
"Candy?" Soubi slid the tobacco roll between his lips, his hand diving into the pocket of his jeans. "It's better for you than this." He paused to blow a smoke cloud and turned, crossing his ankles. "Trust me."  
  
Kio quirked an eyebrow at the lollipop Soubi held in front of his face for all of three seconds before he dissolved in a small fit of giggles. Oh. He should either stop drinking, or go back inside and open another can.  
  
"Sou-chan, I won't trust a guy with candy in a million years," he managed when he caught his breath.  
  
Soubi reached out and plucked Kio's glasses off his face. "I'll remember that," he said, "next time you offer me some of yours."


End file.
